


The Last Resort

by veronamay



Category: Actor RPF
Genre: Early Work, Fluff, M/M, Unbeta'd
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-01-19
Updated: 2005-01-19
Packaged: 2017-10-20 17:29:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,173
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/215254
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/veronamay/pseuds/veronamay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>At the time of writing this fic, I'd been looking for articles on these two, and one line from some piece of fluff or other stuck with me; the fact that they used to share a bank account.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Last Resort

_This is stupid_ , he thinks. It’s nothing to obsess over after all this time, but he’s obsessing anyway because no matter how he looks at it, this is the end of an era and things will never be the same for them. Things haven’t really been “the same” for a while now, but he’s been able to ignore that because there was this single last bastion of them-ness to fall back on. But now that’s nearly gone too – five seconds, a signature – and for the first time since he was ten years old he’s a completely single entity.

It feels all kinds of wrong, but he knows it’s necessary. People who work in banks talk, especially people with recognisable clients who are local boys made good. Like it or not, and mostly he does, he and Ben are visible now, thanks to that little gold guy on the mantel that he sometimes thinks he’s hallucinating. It means a lot of things, but mostly that he is – they are – newsworthy. So those guys at the bank go home and tell their gossipy wives and teenage kids whose account they handled today in the vague hope of impressing somebody. And before you know it there’s an inch-high headline in the _Enquirer_ screaming MATT AND BEN’S SECRET NEST EGG and theories about which cosy hideaway they’ll use it to buy.

Thing is, there was a time not long ago when that would have been close to the truth.

But then he got nervous, and he backed off even though Ben was saying _Fuck it all, I love you, man_ , and he knew they could survive the press. But he looked at that stupid fucking statuette and he zigged when he should have grabbed Ben and run for the hills, and that was the end of that. They went legit, their careers went crazy and they started making jokes about how married they are before anyone else could.

But all the while he’s felt he had a safety net, a get out of hetero free card, because the account was still there, a string of numbers linking them together. There’s never been real money in there, never a huge amount, but enough.

Now he’s sitting here with a faxed copy of the paperwork in front of him, staring at Ben’s signature until it doesn’t make sense. He can remember the day they opened this account, the years of deposits and withdrawals, the plans they built with it. They make their plans separately now. Oh, they always have time for each other, that’ll never change, but gone are the hours-long discussions of which role to take and where they’re headed. They have agents and publicists to do that for them now. All the urgency and desperation is gone, and while _that’s_ nice, he misses all the rest of it. That sense of them-against-the-world. The bank account stood for that if nothing else. Now they stand apart, and he can feel the empty space at his side.

Well. All good things must come to an end, or so they say. He sets his pen against the paper and scribbles a harsh signature. Faxes it back to the bank. Files the faxed copy neatly away. It’s almost criminal how little it takes to destroy his most treasured connection.

No secret love nest in their future, that’s for sure. And he supposes he knew that. It always stings when your dreams are shattered, that’s all. Like splinters of falling glass catching in your skin.

Half an hour later his phone rings. He stops staring at nothing and picks up.

“Hey,” he says, trying for casual. “What’s up?”

“You tell me.” Ben sounds pissy. “Where’s the paperwork for the bank?”

Oh Christ, isn’t it over yet? “I signed it already. They should have it back by now.”

“Not that stuff, the other stuff. From the bank here.” _Here_ meaning LA, which is where Ben is. Matt’s heart pounds, but just a little.

“I don’t have any other stuff,” he says. “I got the fax from the bank here and that’s it. What the fuck are you talking about?”

“Oh, for— never mind. I’m an idiot. I forgot to tell them your fax number.” Ben’s voice fades out, then comes back clear. “I’ll call you back, okay?”

“Wait!” But it’s too late, he’s gone, and Matt’s staring at the phone in his hand like a total moron. Two minutes later he’s pacing the floor when his fax machine starts to hum and the phone rings again.

“What. The fuck. Is going. On?” Matt asks.

“New. Bank. Account,” Ben shoots back. “Sign the stuff they send you, send it back, and we’re done.”

Matt has no idea what to say – for about ten seconds. “Are you crazy? We were playing with fire as it was, and now you want to open a joint account in _Hollywood_?” He runs a hand through his hair. “We’ll be in Leno’s monologue by Tuesday.”

“Nope,” Ben says with that smug tone Matt hates. “They can’t talk. If they talk, we can sue their asses off for disclosure of confidential information and no-one with a bankable name will ever touch them again. It’s actually safer this way. Relax. It’s covered, man.”

Matt bites his lip. “But ... why?” he asks. “It’s not like we need it anymore.” _Liar_.

“Says you,” Ben replies. Then, “It’s for our retirement plan,” and that’s entirely new.

“Retirement? Already?” He’ll play along, though as always they’re on the same page, the same line, the same fucking _semi-colon_ , which is the coolest sensation in the world.

“Yeah.” Ben’s smiling; he can hear it. “I figure we get out of the game at forty before our devilish good looks start to fade, we head to Acapulco and buy a shack on the beach.”

Matt closes his eyes and deliberately gives his forearm a good hard pinch. It hurts, a lot.

“Gross,” he says. “Acapulco? No way. Gotta be Florida, at least. Or Maui. Have some class, man.”

“I always knew you were a Harvard snob at heart.”

“Fuck you.”

“Anytime.”

He tries to reply but his breath seems to be caught somewhere around his belt buckle. Ben must catch some signal though, because he laughs low and soft.

“Gotcha.”

“Always.” It’s out before he thinks about it.

Ben curses. “Fucker. Why do you do this _now_ , when it’s a six-hour flight through fucking Charlotte between here and there?”

“My perverse nature demands it,” Matt says. He stops pacing and falls into his favourite armchair, relaxed now after hours of tension.

“You got that right,” and he knows everything is on track, everything is going to be just fine.

“Stop your bitching and come home,” he says now. Orders, really.

“Yes sir, right away, sir!”

“I won’t grace that with a comeback.”

“Save your come for _my_ back,” Ben says, and laughs again when he chokes. “Hang tight, I’ll be there by midnight. If the fucking plane isn’t delayed again.”

Ben hangs up on him, but Matt’s smiling.


End file.
